


Haunted

by acataleptic



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - No Sburb/Sgrub Sessions, F/F, F/M, Homophobic Language, Humanstuck, Lots of Murder, M/M, Murder-Suicide, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sexual Assault, Slow Build, dirk is very stressed and sad, haunted house au, im a terrible tagger, im bad at pacing, nearly everyone is actually a ghost, parental!dirk, there are other relationships that ill tag when they actually become mildly relevant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-01
Updated: 2015-03-29
Packaged: 2018-03-15 20:00:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3460142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acataleptic/pseuds/acataleptic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a string of misfortunes, Dirk Strider and his younger brother move out of the city, in hopes that a new house will mean a new life.<br/>What they didn't expect was for that house to already be occupied.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Metronomic

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t really know why I thought this was a good idea- I just know it’s been a very tenacious one that’s been driving me ballistic so I'm just going for it.  
> Gonna slap a disclaimer on the slow start, it might be about 3 chapters before plot stuff starts getting fleshed out. Gomen pacing is not my strong suit.  
> Who am I kidding, I have no strong suits.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> metronomic  
> \ˌme-trə-ˈnä-mik\  
> adjective:  
> mechanically regular (as in action or tempo)

Dirk Strider considers ignoring the shrill ping of his message tone in favour of going back to sleep. He is exhausted.

Whoever said that life is hard had it damn fucking straight.

Not that he’s about to throw a self pity party, he hasn’t got the time for that kind of horseshit. Dirk knows perfectly well that the world owes him nothing, especially not a break once in a while- regardless of how incredibly wonderful that might be.

The phone pings again.

He groans and swings his arm out to feel around his bedside table for it, eyes still closed. His fingers brush the corner and he slides it close enough to get a solid grip on, knocking his shades to the floor in the process.

_Ping._

“ _Shut up_.” He snaps at the phone as he rubs his eyes with his free hand, trying to adjust to the morning light.

In the lounge room he can hear that the television is on. Dave must be awake already. For a moment he panics, he really cannot afford to be sleeping in- but checking the clock on his phone, he sees its only 8am.

_One hour till Job One, seven hour shift, half hour break, Job Two, ten hour shift, three hours sleep, personal work until you vomit all over yourself and black out, or you finally die, whichever comes first._

Dirk punches in his passcode and unlocks his phone.

**Hello Mr. Strider, we need to have a rather serious conversation pertaining to the behaviour of your brother.**

**Please, contact me as soon as you are available and we can set up a meeting.**

**-KV**

He rolls his eyes, and flips through his mental list for the day, searching for a place to squeeze the meeting in. Like Tetris, he switches and turns the blocks of his day to somehow snugly fit his brotherly duties into his schedule. Honestly, if given the opportunity he would homeschool Dave, but he is barely ever home, and he only has time to provide the kind of education Dave would receive nowhere else. Swords.

Dirk swipes back to check his other messages and his blood runs cold.

**dont bother coming into work today. youre done.**

**youll get your severance in the mail.**

_No. Fuck, no._

He almost throws his phone across the room before it pings again. He checks hastily, hoping, and, even though it’s unlike him, _praying_ that this is some kind of sick, stupid joke.

**fucking faggot.**

And then he throws his phone across the room.

_Fifty minutes till Job One, seven hour shift, come home, sit around with no fucking clue of what to do with yourself, make dinner maybe, I don’t know do something worthwhile. Die. Please just die._

Dirk Strider covers his face with his hands and tries not to scream. In the privacy of his own room, he is humiliated, ashamed, and fucking depressed as all hell. Outside of this space, he must be stoic and intact, but right now he doesn’t have to be.

He was lonely, he was drunk, and he made some mistakes.

Okay, he made a lot of mistakes.

He can’t fight back, he can’t even argue. Texas is a hellhole. Pressing his palms to his eyes, Dirk breathes in deeply.

_Take control, its okay, you can find another job. You’ll get severance, put it away. It’ll be fine. You can manage. Pull it the fuck together. You’re being a little bitch. Dave will be fine, he doesn’t have to know. You’ve got this._

He takes a few breaths and then drops his arms limp by his sides, pulling his face into a tight mask of neutrality. He stares at the ceiling, doing calculations in his head. Rent plus food minus wage equals mega fucked. He weighs the pros (at least it was the lesser paying job, if they’re going to be homophobic dickheads why would he want to work at their stupid bar anyway?) and he weighs the cons (You lost a job, you needed that job, you need all the money you can get).

“Okay,” He says out loud; to no one in particular, not even really himself, “Now you have time to see Dave’s fucking school and sort out this noise before it gets too far out of hand,” He pauses, “Again.”

“What?”

Dirk shoots upright; he cannot _believe_ he didn’t hear Dave open his door. He’s losing his touch. “What do you mean what? How long have you been standing there?”

Dave folds his arms and leans further into the doorway. He cannot _believe_ that Dirk didn’t hear him open the door. He’s losing his touch.

“Long enough to hear your little pep talk,” He smirks, “Cute, by the way.”

“What can I say? I need some serious motivation to deal with your incessant day to day bullshit.”

Dave scoffs, “As if, I am a joy to be around. I am a Goddamn _gift_ to this world.”

Dirk rolls his eyes, which is completely visible on account of them being unshaded, which in turn is weird and surreal, and Dave’s not sure just how comfortable he is with it.

“That’s not what your school seems to think.”

“And what, do you actually give a damn? The educational institution is so full of shit it could fertilize a greenhouse. Grow the best fucking green beans you ever had.”

The older brother smirks, maybe he was inadvertently homeschooling him anyway.

“Get me some coffee you smug little shit.”

“What am I? Your slave?”

“Yes, you hit the nail right on the head, gave that poor nail permanent brain damage, how is he supposed to support his family now?” Dave stares at him, unimpressed, “Coffee. Now.”

“You don’t own me.”

“Yes I do. I am the oldest.”

He groans and pushes off the doorframe and heads in the direction of the kitchen, “Yeah, by like, two years.”  Dave doesn’t complain too much, he already boiled the kettle a few minutes ago for instant ramen- the breakfast of kings, so all he really needs to do is put that black powdery stuff into a cup with it.

Right?

 Right.

 Dave Strider is fucking all over this shit.

“ _Six_ years.” Dirk retorts, picking his shades up off the floor.

“That’s not that much,” Dirk leaves his bedroom, glancing at the paused game of Skyrim on the TV as he passes it, “Have you seen a six year old?” Dave asks, holding out an old, slightly chipped SeaWorld mug Dirk had stolen from some shady-ass gift shop two years ago, “Stupid as all hell, fuckin’ useless to society.”

“Are you forgetting that I raised you?” Dirk asks with a raised eyebrow, “I know exactly how fuckin’ useless six year olds are.” He sips at the coffee and immediately regrets it, “But it would seem seventeen year olds are just as useless, Dave this tastes like piss.”

Dave shrugs and heads back over to the couch, “Its bean water, it’s not supposed to taste good.”

He unpauses his game and Dirk watches him try to steal a wheel of cheese from a merchant out of the corner of his eye, “It does if you actually have any idea what the hell you’re doing.”

“Like I fucking know how to make coffee.” He mutters, “If you wanted it that bad you coulda made it yourself, Goddamn.”

Dirk tips the bean water down the sink, not really in the mood for it anymore anyway. He watches the black thin to dark brown and slide its way down the plughole. He can relate to that sad cup of shit.

_Thirty minutes till Job One, seven hour shift, one hour break, appointment with Mr. Shitstain, come home, avoid the talk with Dave, maybe order pizza and watch a movie or something. Spend some time with your fucking brother. Teach him how to make coffee? No. Don’t do that. Go to sleep. Rinse and repeat._

“Bro.” Dave calls from the couch, shaking Dirk from his mental schedule.

“What?”

“Are you gonna be working late as all fuck tonight, or do you think you could pick up some pizza or something,” Dave, now lost in the dark near a lake out in buttfuck nowhere (albeit with an extra wheel of cheese to his name), turns to his brother, “I’m malnourished; seriously, I’m wasting away here.”

Dirk huffs and shakes his head, “Yeah, yeah. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Sweet.” He turns back to his game, stumbling around in the dark, looking for wolves to fight.

\---

Usually, a shower is the best part of Dirk Strider’s day. The hot water, way hotter than can be considered healthy, hot enough to make his skin red, raw, just below a blister- cleans out his thoughts for at least five minutes.

But not today.

He can scrub himself until he bleeds, but he can’t scrub out the looming thought of the water bill, or the fact that he is halfway back to unemployment. He can’t scrub out his overdue rent. He can’t scrub out this worry, this maelstrom of anxiety and emptiness.

He stands still, hunched over, his head against the tiled wall as the boiling water pounds down onto the base of his spine.

He closes his eyes as the water runs down his face.

“This is a fucking travesty.” He mutters softly. They’re middle class, but it took a lot of work, and Dirk’s disquieted attitude towards the future is more than reasonable.

The apartment eats up most of his budget, but to consider moving out, in this economy? Ha, what a joke. They’d be eating rats and half finished trashcan burritos within a week. And then there’s food, clothes, utilities, school fees, materials for his projects, transport related expenses, and the occasional gift to worry about.

_Twenty minutes till Job One, seven hour shift, one hour break, appointment with Mr. Shitstain, come home. Tell Dave? No. Don’t tell Dave. He couldn’t give a shit anyway. Get some pizza. Be a good brother. Be a good brother. Be a good brother._

Dirk grits his teeth and thumps his forehead against the wall.

The water keeps beating down, a constant stream. Methodical, metronomic. Dirk clenches his fists and pushes off the wall, so he’s standing somewhat straight, allowing the water to pound him square in the face. His blonde hair tinges orange as it soaks through and sticks to his skin. He’s beginning to feel dizzy from the heat, and it’s getting hard to breathe.

Systematically, he cleans himself, and shuts off the water.

He stands, still, dripping, in the same spot for a few moments. Dirk raises his head to look at one glass wall of the shower, heavy with steam.

Impulsively, he draws a childish smiley face into it with his forefinger. He stares blankly at the two dots and a curve.

It’s meaningless.

\---

Due to a mixture of factors, including- but not being limited to- the fact that he currently really could not give and shit, and otherwise he may lose his (only) job- Dirk does his hair in record time. Hair is Strider pride. He knows that, Dave knows that. Neither of them know if the vanity is actually ironic or not, though.

White shirt, black jeans. The word casual comes to mind, but is instantly replaced by mediocre.  Dirk looks away from his reflection. He can’t stomach it right now. He’d much prefer to drift through the day, disembodied. Invisible.

_Five minutes till Job One, seven hour shift, one hour break, appointment with Mr. Shitstain, come home._

He turns his back to himself and leaves his room. “What kind of pizza do you want?” He asks as he grabs his wallet off the kitchen table and pockets it.

Dave doesn’t respond.

“A shit pizza with extra corn? Any kind, as long as it’s been ejaculated on before consumption? One made of hair and the sadness of third world children? Bro, come on, I have to go.”

Dave remains silent. His ‘sexy-as-possible’ wood elf isn’t moving. Dirk frowns. He’s being ignored. He crosses the room to smack the back of his head from behind the couch, but stops in his tracks when he sees what Dave’s so interested in.

“What the _fuck_ do you think you’re doing?” He hisses, low, and, for someone so usually shrouded in indifference, venomous.

Dave turns his head to look at his brother, “You got fired?”

Dirk snatches his phone out of Dave’s unprotesting hands. He pockets it but responds with turning back towards the kitchen. To anyone else, he seems apathetic, maybe a little annoyed at most- but Dave can tell that he is currently _mad as hell._ But he’ll be a twice fucked slice of burnt toast if he isn’t as well.

“Bro, what the fuck- they can’t do that.” Dave gets up off the couch, following his brother.

Dirk lets out a tiny, private sigh, “Dave.”

“There’s gotta be some kind of law, you need a reason right? You can’t just go around firing people like that, its fucking 2015.”

“Dave,” His hands pressed hard against the dining table, and shoulder blades locked, Dirk shakes his head, “Just stop.”

Dave doesn’t stop, though, if anything his brother’s passivity just makes him even more thoroughly pissed off, “Don’t just lie down and take this shit, come on, _ream this fuckwit_.”

Dirk slams his hands into the table, “ _DAVE!”_

Dave recoils. He has never heard his brother say anything in that kind of tone in his entire life. They bicker; of course they fucking bicker, they’re siblings. That’s what siblings do. But this tone, it wasn’t argumentative, or sibling-y. If he hadn’t watched his shoulders shake with the word, and heard the huge wooden slap punctuating it, Dave wouldn’t have believed it came from Dirk at all.

It was more than anger. Deeper than that. And honestly, it scared Dave shitless. Usually he’d make a joke about whether or not he was about to cry- but, he finds himself unable to do anything besides clench his jaw, let alone pull out some world class sass.

It’s silent for a few moments. Dirk’s hands sting from the impact, and he can hear his heart pounding in his ears. He forces himself to loosen his shoulders and straighten his back. He takes the deepest, least conspicuous breath he can and turns to his little brother.

Dave stands in deadlock. Face as stoic as always, or at least to the people who didn’t change his diapers and wipe his ass until he was five.

He’s afraid.

“Look, dude,” Dirk clasps Dave’s shoulders- which feels awkward, but also like the right action to be performing, “It’s going to be all right. When have I ever fucked us over so bad I couldn’t remedy it? Never. That’s when. Not once.”

Dave looks away but nods softly, “Yeah.”

He returns the nod and his eyes move from Dave to the clock on the wall behind him, “Okay, well, I have to leave, but I will be home before 8.” Dirk releases his brother and scoops up the keys to the shittiest car imaginable off the table. Dave watches him as he hurries to the door.

“Dirk.”

The taller Strider looks back over his shoulder, halfway out, “What?”

Dave allows the tiniest, faintest shadow of a smile to tug at his mouth, “Hawaiian.”

Dirk rolls his eyes, “I know.”

\---

He doesn’t drive. Dirk pauses as he goes to unlock his car, keys hovering just outside the keyhole. He doesn’t really make the conscious decision, or, at least, he can’t pinpoint the exact moment he decides. He just stands, in suspended animation, his muscles don’t seize up; they just stop. He blinks, and then he pulls his hand away from the car door, pockets his keys, and walks.

Before leaving the visual radius of his apartment, he looks back- half expecting Dave to be watching him leave out the window, like he used to when they were younger.

He’s not, and for some reason which Dirk doesn’t completely understand, he’s disappointed.

\----

“Dirky,” Roxy shakes her head and presses her thumb and forefinger harder into her brow, “That is _all kinds_ of fucked up.”

He snorts and draws in deep on his cigarette, “Yeah,” He breathes, mixing his words and smoke into the sweltering afternoon air.

She takes an angry swig from her bottle of Pepsi. She’s been sober for about two weeks now, and Pepsi is the only liquid that can quench her thirst for inebriation. Or, in her own words- She needs Pepsi to feel joy because she’s not allowed to get shitfaced anymore. 

“For reals,” She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, “Do you want me to kill them? ‘cause I will.”

Dirk taps and the bridge of his cigarette, sending the log of ash flittering down to the street. Roxy Lalonde is quite possibly the love of his life- its unfortunate they’re both gayer than Richard Simmons singing a duet with Carmen Miranda in a bath house.

“I know,” He rolls his head down lazily to look at her, sitting on the blue plastic crate, two litre bottle of Pepsi in one hand, the weight of the world in the other, “But I think it’d be a bit redundant.”

“Fuck redundant, this is like, the biggest load of bullshit I have ever heard in all my 19 years of hearin’ bullshit.”

“Roxy, you’re 23.”

She ignores him, “So, I’m just sittin’ here right, on my ass- drinkin’ my _fucking Pepsi_ , because if I show up to work drunk again I’ll get fired, and then I’ll have to be a hobo or something, and I’m too damn sexy to be wearin’ all those raggedy-ass clothes and be begging for spare change like I’m Oliver fucking Twist. And it hits me,” She pauses and twists her head to look at Dirk with a scrunched expression, “Houston is a fucking hole.”

He makes an affirmative grunting noise and takes another draw.

Lunch breaks with Roxy are always a highlight. Dirk has an intense fondness for the, currently very sweaty, blonde girl with a mouth and a mind permanently situated in the gutter. She has the biggest heart of anyone he has ever met; she just won’t let anyone see it.

“It’s so hot, holy shit my tits are gonna melt off.” She places her bottle between her thighs to fan herself vigorously with both hands.

“That’s physically impossible Rox.”

“No fucking shit; it was a figure of speech asshat.”

He breathes out heavily through his nose in a mildly amused fashion and flicks his cigarette to the ground, crushing the butt under his foot.

“So,” She grabs the crate under herself, and shuffles it around to face him fully, “what’chu gonna do Dirky?”

He shrugs, “Honestly? I don’t really know.”

She purses her lips in thought, “Well, y’all can come live with mamma Ro-Lal if you need to. There’s not like, an abundance of space, but it’ll be like an indefinite sleepover.”

“That sounds awesome Rox,” Dirk smiles faintly, “Thanks.” He’s too proud to actually ever take her up on her offer, but God he adores her. Roxy is the best friend anyone could hope for- and there’s no way he deserves her. But he’s glad he has her.

“We can paint each other’s toenails and talk about boys.”

“You don’t even like boys.”

“Well _I_ can paint the toenails and _you_ can talk about the boys.”

Dirk rolls his eyes, “That’s why I’m in this situation in the first place Roxy.”

“Yeah, well, you know what? Fuck ‘em,” She gestures her arms out huge, encompassing the universe, “Fuck _all_ of ‘em. You got me, and I’m all you need.”

“Damn straight.” He says, agreeing wholeheartedly.

Roxy gins and takes another swig from her Pepsi, downing the remainder of it.

“I cannot believe you drank two litres of that shit.”

She laughs and throws the bottle into the dumpster to her left, “Gotta work with what you got.”

Dirk shakes his head affectionately, “You’re ridiculous.”

She holds out her hand and he passes her his phone so she can use the camera to reapply her lipstick, as per routine.

“Yeah, but you love me.” Roxy turns her head left and right with pursed lips to check to her angles. Satisfied, she hands Dirk his phone back, “Now let’s go make some Goddamn money.”

\---

“You sure you don’t wanna come with?” Roxy asks, leaning over the counter, fingers pressed together.

“Roxy, just because you keep asking,” Dirk punctuates his sentence by slicing through the masking tape on the cardboard box filled with new stock, “Doesn’t mean I’m going to change my mind.”

Roxy pouts, “So you’ll let me go out by myself like a total loser tool?” He flips the box cutter around in his hand and raises an eyebrow at his friend. She tilts her head back in limp defeat and groans, “You’re killin’ me Dirky.”

He opens the box and hands her a pile of CDs, “I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

She huffs and takes them begrudgingly, muttering something about douchebag under her breath as she goes to shelve them.

Dirk pushes the empty box aside and heaves another onto the counter. Gazing at the clock, he sees he has twenty more minutes until his shift is over. Roxy works later than he does, longer hours means more time for their sleazy asshole boss to hit on her relentlessly. Over across the store, Dirk can see him blatantly staring, almost drooling, over her ass as she bends to reach the bands starting with ‘S’. He goes to say something, but Roxy thrusts her elbow backwards and she straightens up, hitting him square on in the crotch.

“Didja see that?” She asks, grinning as she hurries back over to Dirk, “Got him right in the dick.”

“Not hard,” He slices open the new box in front of him, “Pretty much one hundred percent of him is dick.”

Cronus Ampora: possible sex offender and owner of the shittiest music store in Texas.

“I swear to God,” Roxy sighs as she takes the next pile of CDs from Dirk, “If that trashbag gropes me one more time I’m gonna beat the shit out of him. I mean, yeah, I’m pretty much irresistible, but come on- have some fuckin’ self control.”

Dirk snorts quietly as Roxy saunters away toward the still crippled and groaning Cronus. The last minutes of his shift blur together as he goes through the motions, exchanging witty banter and CDs. As soon as the hour hand ticks past 3, Dirk bluntly informs Cronus, who is applying ice to his crotch in the storage room, that he is leaving. Cronus responds with a half-hearted whatever, ego just as bruised as his balls.

“Yo,” Roxy calls to him as he heads to the door, arms filled with stock still to be sorted, “Gimmie a call me if you decide that you’re sick of being such a Goddamn stick in the mud and actually wanna have some fun.” 

“I’ll make sure to do that.” He responds, facing back towards her. She nods, satisfied, and shifts the CDs into one arm, so to give him a friendly salute, which he trades for a small wave as he pushes the door open with his hip and leaves.

\---

Waiting outside the gates of Dave’s high school, Dirk leans against the brick wall and takes out a cigarette. He holds it between his teeth for a moment, lost in his own thoughts about nothing in particular before grabbing his lighter out of his pocket and lighting it.

Dirk never used to smoke. Well, correction- Dirk never used to smoke _often._ Only when he was particularly stressed, which seems to be almost constantly now. He draws, then takes his cigarette between his fingers, closes his eyes and tilts his head back to exhale.

“Although I usually do not impede on another’s choice in lifestyle, this kind of behaviour is most self destructive. And, I would like to suggest that you cease it for you own good.”

Peeking under his lashes, Dirk raises an eyebrow at the short man in the stupid red jumper.

“What?”

The man points at the cigarette, burning indifferently between Dirk’s mostly limp fingers, “That will kill you, and I would advise you to avoid that particular fate. Especially if you are to advance your brother’s educational potential, which is why you are here, I presume. You are Dirk Strider? Forgive me if I am mistaken, it’s just that David has a tendency to wear abnormal sunglasses constantly, regardless of outside opinion, as well.”

“Yeah, I’m Dirk.” He takes a last, deep draw and flicks his cigarette to the ground.

The man’s eyes widen and a look of abhorred shock plasters his face, “A-are you going to pick that up?”

“I wasn’t planning to.”

He twitches, “I would highly rec-”

“Look man, I’m really busy, so if we can just get this show on the road that would be great.”

The man clears his throat, looking all kinds of offended, “My _name_ is Kankri Vantas, and of course, I will meet you inside. I really do wish you had acquiesced to my request and booked an appointment- luckily for you, however, I am very generous and am more than willing to take time out of my very busy schedule to discuss the betterment of youth.” Dirk rolls his eyes at Kankri -who is bending over to pick up the cigarette butt- as he walks into the school.

It’s kind of a shithole, all rusted steel and old brick, but it’s the best (and only) school in the general vicinity. He already regrets coming here and subjecting himself to this. Part of him was hoping that Kankri wouldn’t even show, and he could just hang around as an excuse to keep himself busy. But he really should have known not to bother with hope.

Kankri, almost carefully, tosses the butt into the nearest bin and dusts down the front of his sweater, “We will confer these matters in my classroom.” He breezes past Dirk, not even bothering to check if he is following suit. Dirk sighs and massages his temples, already staring down the barrel of a migraine.

The block that his classroom is situated in is almost completely over the other side of the school grounds. Dirk follows Kankri through the graphitised walkways and across the weedy, overgrown oval. He wonders if the school is really so poor they can’t afford a groundskeeper, but then he sees the clown looking dude leaning against a ride on mower across the field waving to him, and it all makes sense.

“I think your groundskeeper is high.” He calls to Kankri who either doesn’t hear him, or blatantly ignores him.

By the time they reach the building, Dirk knows two things about Kankri Vantas for certain. He walks very fast for such a small man with such tiny small legs, and that he has a pole lodged so firmly up his ass, he could be waved around like a flag.

“Just in here. Please, come in.” Kankri gestures to the classroom with the open door just inside the block. Dirk enters with his hands in his pockets and Kankri closes the door behind them.

The room looks like something out of a nightmare. Sterile, pristine. All the tables and chairs in symmetrical lines, every angle matching up. The walls are barren, save for a red poster next to the chalkboard that reads ‘BE RESPECTFUL’ in large black lettering. Next to it, Kankri’s desk is just a bigger copy of the student desks; all polished wood and indifference. His papers are organised into sharp piles, stationary painstakingly positioned. He sits down carefully on his matching wooden chair and weaves his fingers through eachother, elbows on the table, “Take a seat.”

Kankri winces at the grating of wood on wood as Dirk grabs the nearest chair and drags it to sit opposite him.

“So what’s this about?” Dirk folds one leg over the other and leans back into the chair, externally blasé.

Kankri clears his throat, “Your brother, he has- to put in the least upsetting terms I can- been causing quite a lot of strife. Not only in my classes, heavens no, I have spoken to the rest of his educators and we are all in concurrence that something is to be done. His behaviour has been unacceptable, Mr Strider.”

Dirk folds his arms, “If this is about that drawing he did bec-”

“No. This is not about that.” Kankri’s face reddens with poorly constrained anger, “He disrupts class, he does not pay attention, and he is _disrespectful_. He refuses to take off those- pardon my language- _damn sunglasses,_ no matter how many times he is asked to. He gets into fights, with both students _and teachers_. _Physical_ ones!”

Dirk almost smiles, but instead he raises an eyebrow out of pretend concern. Kankri opens the drawer beneath him and half a sword is placed onto the desk, “Do you know what this is?!”

“A sword.”

“Yes! It is a sword! _Your brother_ brought a _sword_ onto school grounds!”

Not Dave. _‘Your brother’_. He spits it, like it’s leaving a foul taste in his mouth. ‘ _Your brother’_ \- as though it’s an accusation.

“The kid likes swords,” Dirk shrugs, attempting to keep his rising frustration internal, “Wasn’t like he was going to kill anyone with it. It’s broken.”

Kankri splutters, “That is not the _point_!”

“Look,” He says, deadpan, “I don’t know what you want me to do about this.”

“Well, the typical treatment for a digression such as this is having him see a psyc-”

The chair skids backwards as Dirk stands suddenly, “He doesn’t need any _fucking therapy_.”  He says, voice still even- but thick and threatening. Kankri recoils as the much taller man stands over him.

“He is troublesome.” Kankri offers.

Dirk fractures, “He’s a human being!”

Kankri forms his mouth into a hard line, “I was only suggesti-”

“Dave - _my brother_ \- is a good kid. It isn’t _his_ fault that you’re an asshole. You’re supposed to be a teacher; you’re supposed to view your students as _students_ , not a bunch of statistics on a page that could bring you into disrepute if they get too low. If you can’t treat him with some fucking tiny _degree_ of respect, then I have absolutely nothing left to say to you.”

“Mr Strider, I will have you know that I am an _extremely_ respecting person, and it upsets me that you would insinuate otherwise. _Perhaps_ , the issue is less psychological, and a little…”He raises an eyebrow and folds his arms, “Closer to home.”

Dirk scowls and considers flipping the desk onto this smug little dick in his dumbass red sweater. But instead he takes a breath and turns away, heading for the door.

“Where do you think you are going?” Kankri calls from his desk.

“I’m going home. Don’t expect Dave to be here on Monday.”

\---

Dirk strider holds the paper bag with the garlic bread in it between his teeth to free up a hand so he can unlock his apartment door. He hid outside for a while, prolonging the inevitable- but if the pizza went cold Dave would have a whinge and he really does not need to deal with that tonight. Not on top of everything else.

Dirk grunts through the paper as he struggles to find the right key single-handedly. Before he can try the next one, the door opens a crack.

“I’m going to let you in but not before you promise that you are mentally stable and not looking to send your fist through the nearest wall.” Dave says through the tiny gap.

Dirk rolls his eyes and tries to respond, but his words are muffled against the bag and his own clenched teeth.

“I’m going to take that as a yes even if I will regret it later.” He opens the door the rest of the way, but stands in the threshold, blocking the entrance.

Dirk stares at him incredulously, “Moof.”

“Seriously. Don’t freak out.”

Dirk looks up out of vexation and shakes his head, “Fime. _Moof_.” Dave looks hesitant to move, but his brother pushes past him nonetheless. Dirk spits out the bag onto the counter, it’s covered in drool from where it was in his mouth, “Was that really necessary?” He hands the pizza box to Dave who takes it rather tentatively.

“What’s wrong?”

Dave keeps his mouth formed into a hard line. A bubbling anxiety rises into the pit of Dirk’s stomach.

“David Strider I swear to God.”

He takes a defeated breath and nods in the direction of the fridge. Dirk turns to a piece of paper that wasn’t there when he left.

”I’d say remember you promised you wouldn’t freak out but we both know that you don’t ever fucking forget anything. You’re like freckly blonde elephant in pointy-ass shades.” He jokes, almost desperately trying to diffuse some tension.

Dirk ignores him and tears the document off the fridge, a sick numbness seeping through his limbs. Dave watches him from across the room, box of quickly cooling pizza still in hand. Both are motionless. Dirk stares at the paper as though its blank, not able to bring himself to read anything further than the large black **_EVICTION NOTICE_** written across the letterhead.


	2. Quixotic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quixotic  
> \kwik-sot-ik\  
> adjective:  
> extremely idealistic; unrealistic and impractical.

Dave sits on the couch, outwardly impassive and watching Cake Boss, but internally uneasy and watching his brother speak in a harsh whisper over the phone in the corridor. It’s been just over an hour since Dirk found the eviction notice, and he has been making calls ever since he unfroze. Dave hasn’t asked who he’s talking to, if Dirk is going to tell him- he will.

The pizza sits, unopened and probably cold, on the coffee table. Putting food in his stomach would just be loading the fucking gun. Dave chews on the inside of his mouth instead as Dirk raises his voice just above a whisper.

“No, look I-” He leans against the wall with a hand on the back of his neck, “Can’t you jus-” Dirk pulls his phone away from his ear. He looks at the blank screen and rolls his head back in frustrated defeat, pinching the bridge of his nose and sinking further into the wall.

Dirk Strider has never wanted to cry more than he does at this moment. But he doesn’t. He pushes back off the wall and chucks his phone onto the bench as he passes it to plonk down onto the couch. The epitome of hopeless.

 Dave looks at him from the opposite end of the sofa with a raised eyebrow, but he doesn’t say anything. Dirk shrugs, “The landlord hung up on me.”

Dave chucks him the remote, “What an asshole.”

Dirk nods in agreement with a tight frown and sets the remote down on the coffee table without changing the channel. They sit in silence for what seems like an eternity to Dave. He wants to ask, but he hasn’t the fucking faintest as to how. Almost as though he can sense his little brother’s remonstration, Dirk drops him a line.

 “Just ask."

Dave looks at his feet. He hesitates for a moment, but complies before he can stop himself, “What are we going to do bro?”

“I’ll work something out.” Dirk clenches his jaw and keeps his eyes trained outwards, “Oh, yeah, by the way,” He puts his feet up onto the coffee table, “I got you expelled.”

Dave looks up at his brother with a furrowed brow before laughing quietly, “Awesome.”

Dirk turns to him with a mixture of surprised exhaustion and affectionate exasperation- or as much as can be displayed with a scrunched nose and pressed mouth. Dave shrugs imperturbably, feeling the previous taut disquiet relaxing a little, “Well, now we don’t have to stay in the shittyass town anymore. We can move somewhere that’s not as hot as the devils asscrack.”

Dirk shakes his head and leans back into the couch. It’s unlike Dave to be so positive, but he’s secretly appreciative of it. God knows one of them has to function. “I still have a job here.”

“Who cares? We can live off the land like the rugged, testosterone addled young men we are.”

He rolls his eyes, “You don’t even like going outside you dingus.”

Dave scoffs and waves his hand loosely, “That’s all details. Let’s just fuck off north.”

Dirk responds with a distracted mumble. North sounds pretty good, actually. He fights his rising consideration of the notion- desperately clinging to any sensibility he has. But, besides his job and Roxy, he has nothing here anymore.

_Be logical about this. Think of the money. You don’t have enough money. You might not get another job. You might not find a house. Stop this idealistic shit. Its naïve, its unlike you._

How far north, he wonders. Dirk’s never cared that much for the idea of snow, but he supposes it would be nice to see at least once.

“Bro,” Dave clicks his fingers in front for Dirk’s face, “Hello? Did you have a stroke?”

He climbs out of the recess of his own mind and slaps Dave’s hand away, “What?”

“Your phone is ringing.”

Dirk looks over his shoulder at his phone vibrating on the kitchen bench. He gets up off the couch with limited grace in his hurry. “Hello?” He answers, without checking the ID.

“Dirky! D-D-D- _Di-stri_ ,” Roxy croons into the receiver, “Can yoo come and get me please? I am _rafer_ tipsy.” He mouths ‘Roxy’ to Dave who nods in understanding and turns back to the TV.

“Sure, where are you?”

She gasps almost comically, “What? No big ol’ Dirk lect-” hiccup, “-ure?”

“No point until you’re sober, where are you?”

“I _am_ ,” She draws out the ‘am’, probably looking for discernible features of her location, “On Waywat Avenue.”

“Way _ward_?”

“Ye, that.”

“Okay,” Dirk says, grabbing his keys, “I’ll be there soon.”

“Quick, ‘coz Cronus has been followink me all night an’ he is creeping _hard_.”

“I am the fastest draw in the south Roxy; I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

She laughs, but the call cuts out midst it. Dirk looks at the blank screen and shrugs to himself; she probably accidentally bumped the end call button.

“Roxy’s shitfaced. I’m just going to pick her up.” He informs Dave, who replies with an eye roll and a “good luck with that.”

\---

Dirk waits outside, leaning against his car under a streetlamp. He lights a cigarette and looks around the street; it’s barren and shrouded in a nearly pale darkness. Drawing in, he waits for Roxy. She should be here, this is where she specified. For a moment he considers that in the midst of her inebriated slurring, he misheard her directions- but Dirk has been doing drunk runs and pickups for her for long enough to be fluent even in her compromised language.

He’s about the call her again when he hears her shout from somewhere in the night. He looks around but she isn’t in view. Dirk stamps out his cigarette and listens, rigid.

And then he hears a scream.

Dirk practically leaps off his car and sprints in the direction of the noise. He paces, quickly between stores and buildings, desperately searching- A sense of rising dread filling him. He can’t find her.

“Roxy!” He shouts, turning in circles, checking around himself.

He spins on his heels and sprints back towards the sound of his name being called in response, and then being muffled towards the end. He’s running so wildly, and so consumed by his concern, that almost misses the alleyway. His feet skid hard against the pavement, and his legs almost slip completely out from under him as he notices it, and changes his course at a nearly perfect 90 degree angle to follow the voices.

He is only about halfway down when he realises what’s going on- and every single emotion that he has even considered up to this point are replaced by an all consuming, uncontrollable rage.

Dirk throws a punch so hard it sends Cronus stumbling backwards with the cold slap of meat on meat, forcing him away from Roxy. He grabs him by the collar of his shirt and shoves him hard into the brick wall.  Ignoring the throbbing pain in his knuckles from where it connected with Cronus’ cheekbone, Dirk pulls violently on the bunched material, forcing him close to his face.

Cronus wheezes, struggling to fill his lungs that have been forced empty, "what the _FUC_ -"

"No." Dirk says as he tightens his grip, "You don’t get to speak you pathetic fucking piece of _shit_." He spits the words, as filled with anger and venom as he is.

Dirk can’t see Cronus' face all that well in the dark, but the metallic stench of blood from where he must have broken his skin with his fist is unmistakable, and he can hear his fractured panicked breaths. 

"I can think of at least eight ways to kill you right here right now," he presses his clenched fist, still filled with shirt collar, harder against the underside of Cronus' jaw. Dirk can feel his Adam’s apple bobbing against his knuckles as he tries to stay conscious. "So unless you feel like testing me, you will not _move_ , you will not _speak_ ," he growls, "you will not _fucking breathe_ until I allow you to do so- because I _will not_ hesitate _to rip you goddamn throat out._ Are we clear?"

Cronus swallows hard and nods a small, sharp nod.

Dirk scowls in the dark- teeth bared, body rigid with rage and adrenaline, borderline rabid, "If you ever so much as _look_ at Roxy Lalonde ever again, I swear to God, I will _hunt you down_ and I will _skin you alive_ and make you into a _fucking_ Persian rug. Do you want to know what I’m going to do with the dripping sack of meat that’s left over?"

Cronus lets out a voiceless whine.

 "I’m going to bake it into a _fucking pie_ and feed it to some _hungry ass stray dog_." Dirk pauses, "Actually, no, I wouldn’t be surprised if all these years of being the sleaziest, most disgusting shit eating piece of _trash_ on the planet may have made you unfit for consumption, and I wouldn’t want you continuing to make people sick after we’re finally rid of you."

The skid of heels against gravelly concrete as Roxy stumbles to her feet echoes around the alleyway. Dirk looks over his shoulder at her.

"Are you alright?" He asks; face shifting from one of near hysterical anger to concern. She keeps her head down, but raises her eyes to look at him and nods weakly, wiping the vomit from her mouth with her forearm.  When Roxy goes she goes hard.

The sound of Cronus clearing his throat in an attempt to unstick his oesophagus snaps Dirk back into attack mode.

"Oh I’m sorry, are you uncomfortable?" He slams Cronus back into the wall and is met with hoarse cry and a dry, strangled sob. The faint light of the streetlamp illuminates his face just enough so that Dirk make out the dark red reflecting off the blood spilling out of the corner of Cronus' mouth. Dirk pulls his face right up close to his own, so close he can feel Cronus' shaky breaths against his, "Don’t you _ever_ fuck with me or my friend ever again, or _so help me God_ , I will end you."

With that, he shoves his hand away and Cronus doubles over, spluttering and breathless, in a trembling ball, clutching his throat with one hand and his chest with the other.

Dirk stands over him, "Don’t bother firing me, because I fucking quit."

"Same." Roxy calls from her hunched over squatting position on the other side of the alley. Dirk turns away from the whimpering ball of fuck and crosses the narrow space to her. He weaves his arm under hers and helps her to her feet. She pats his shoulder affectionately, still looking down at her feet. He tries to help her walk, but her knees give out and she stumbles heavily

“Come on Rox.” Dirk slips his free arm under her legs and picks her up. She wraps her arms around his neck compliantly, and he carries her over Cronus’ weeping form and out into the open street.

“You okay?” He asks as he walks them both over to his car. She nods weakly into the crook of his neck. She absolutely reeks of alcohol- to the point where it seems as though she’s taken a bath in the stuff. She must have drunken the equivalent of such, though; otherwise she would have been able to sufficiently defend herself. Roxy takes shit from no one, but currently she can’t even support her own body weight. Dirk tightens his grip on her, keeping her close.

As they approach his car, he sets her down to her feet and opens the passenger seat for her. She slides in limply, eyes closed, either half asleep or close to.

“You can stay with Dave and I tonight.” It’s not an offer- it’s an order, but she doesn’t seem to mind. Dirk kneels down and taps her knee, signalling for her to swing out a leg. One at a time, she does so, and Dirk pulls off her stilettos for her. He then shakes his head at the puke on her dress, buckles her seatbelt, gives her a reassuring pat on the arm, and closes the door.

Climbing into the driver’s seat, he rubs his aching hand; he thinks something must be broken. It hurts to grip the wheel, but not unbearably so. No pain is unbearable, really. If anything, he’s glad because it’s something to focus on. Something that stays the same. A constant, deep, physical aching. If he concentrates on what’s tangibly real, he doesn’t have to think about the things that aren’t.

He grips the wheel tightly, knuckles whitening. A sharp pain shoots down his arm and he winces, pulling his hand close into his body.

“Fuck.” He hisses under his breath, analysing the already flowering bruises decorating his fingers. He clenches and releases best he can and grabs the wheel again. Something feels empty.

\---

“Alright, come on,” He holds the door open for Roxy, “Home sweet home for the next ten working days.” She groans but otherwise ignores him.

“Am I going to have to carry you?” She mumbles something incoherent and Dirk rolls his eyes, “I’m going to have to carry you.” He unbuckles her seatbelt and gently manoeuvres her into his arms with a quiet, “Hup.”

He closes the car door behind him with his foot and heads for the apartment building. Dirk almost laughs as he crosses the threshold with Roxy in his arms. Maybe in some fucked up alternate universe they would be doing this under different circumstances. Maybe that’s the way it was meant to be. Part of him wishes that was the way it was meant to be, but all of him knows that it isn’t.

Roxy makes a strange gurgling sound as Dirk starts to climb the stairs. “If you puke on me this friendship is over.” His voice echoes around the empty stairwell.

She snorts, echo absorbing his, but otherwise neither confirming nor denying her inclination to vomit. She still has the half dried leftovers from her last round in the alleyway on the front of her dress. It stinks.

“God damn it Roxy Lalonde,” He murmurs, “You will be the death of me.”

“’Scuse?” She mumbles sloppily.

“I said you need a shower.” She nods into his chest, amused grin on her still faux-sleeping face. Her head and outlying appendages bob up and down as Dirk continues up the last flight of stairs.

“Dave,” He calls, standing outside of the apartment, “Delivery.”

The door opens and Dave looks him up and down from the entrance. He raises an eyebrow at the dishevelled, reeking, puke covered girl in his arms.

“Don’t even say anything.”

“She is not sleeping in my bed.” He says as he steps aside to allow his brother into the apartment.

“I know, I know,” He sighs jadedly, “She can have mine.” Dirk carries Roxy into the apartment, and Dave closes the door behind them.

“Ugh, Jesus fucking Christ bro,” Dave scrunches his nose in disgust, “She smells like garbage juice on fire.”

Dirk ignores him and shifts Roxy closer to his body, heading to the bathroom. “Hey, Rox,” He sets her down on the toilet and holds her head upright, trying to shake some life into her as gently as possible, “You really need to have a shower okay, because you can have my bed but only once you aren’t covered in puke and regret.”

She looks at him from under heavy lids and nods faintly, “Yeah, goddit.”

He pats her cheek with his purpling hand, “I’ll get you a towel.”

\---

Dirk leans against the doorframe with his arms folded, watching the steady rise and fall of Roxy’s chest as she snores, splayed out on top of the covers of his bed. He gave her one of his older shirts and a pair of boxers to wear in exchange for her stanky dress, which he can hear whirring about in the washing machine in the background.

He pushes up off the frame and crosses the room to his bed. Gently, he rolls her onto her side so that, in the event she vomits again, she doesn’t choke to death. He already placed a bucket bedside, but it’s just a precaution. Dirk hasn’t had much luck of late, so precautions are necessary.

“Look at you, all maternal and shit,” Dave says from just outside the room, “You gonna read her a bedtime story?”

“Don’t be jealous Dave,” He retorts as he pulls up the duvet up over Roxy, “Just because there’s a new baby doesn’t mean I don’t still love you.” Dirk examines his friend once more. Satisfied all is as well as it can be, he ticks a mental check-box and turns back to his brother, who is still standing in the doorway, staring incredulously. “What? Do you want me to tuck you in too?”

Dave doesn’t respond.

“Is that a yes, because don’t think that I won-”

“What happened to your hand?”

He reflexively hides his hand behind his back, “Nothing.”

Dave scoffs and turns away, practically secreting his detection of bullshit, “I’m going to bed; you should probably get some ice on that.”

Dirk waits until he hears his brother’s bedroom door close before leaving the room. He heads into the lounge room, where the couch has been fashioned into a makeshift bed. In the light, he takes another look at his hand. It’s swollen and heavy with bruising. He checks in the freezer for some ice, but settles on a packet of frozen peas. Dirk flicks off the light switch and plonks down onto the couch. As he lies down, a cold numbness seeping into his knuckles and up through his wrist, he decides that something is definitely broken. And his hand is pretty jacked up as well.


	3. Serendipity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> serendipity  
> /ser-uh n-dip-i-tee/  
> noun  
> the occurrence and development of events by chance in a happy or beneficial way.

Dirk is already awake when Roxy finally stumbles out of his room. She pauses in the hallway and stretches, all tired eyes and scruffy hair. She scans the room with a glazed sleepiness, rubbing the back of her neck.

“What time is it?” She yawns.

Dirk looks up from his laptop to his friend, silently amused, “2pm.”

She snorts and rubs her face, disregarding him and heading into the kitchen. Dirk feels something he can’t quite place as she rummages through his fridge; he would set it akin to affection, but deeper. Like an utterly, beautifully platonic love. She mutters negatives to herself as she sorts through everything, until she pulls out the box of pizza with a triumphant, “ _Score_!”

He turns back to his laptop, scrolling through house listings online as she plonks down across from him, slapping the box onto the dining table and throwing the lid open as though she hasn’t eaten in weeks. It’s still full, without a single piece missing.

“Holy shit,” She says through a full mouth, “I am hung _-over_.”

“You went pretty hard.”

Roxy laughs, “ _I_ went hard? Look at your _hand_.”

Dirk wiggles his deep purple fingers best he can. It’s painful, but he can deal with it. “I fucked up and clenched too tightly.”

She pauses as she shoves the rest of the slice she was working on into her mouth and spits a little of it out as she says, “You kicked his ass and it was magnificent.”

Dirk shrugs and returns to his absent scrolling. He’s finding it increasingly difficult to focus, but idleness is the last thing he needs. Idleness is the reason he didn’t sleep last night. It’s difficult to relax when every time he closes his eyes he feels as though he’s on the verge of a panic attack.

“The lawsuit he’ll probably file won’t be quite as magnificent.”

She scoffs, “Fuck off, he can’t say shit. He’s a handsy dickhead and he deserved it.”

“His sanctimonious victim complex may disagree with you.”

“He is such a tool.” Roxy agrees with tired irritation. They sit in relative silence for a while as she mows down the pizza, until she looks around the room and asks through a mouth filled with half chewed food, “Where’s Dave?”

“Still in his room,” Dirk answers without looking up from the nice looking apartment in Dallas that he could never afford, “Probably. I don’t know.”

“How’s he going? I haven’t seen him in like, 800 years.”

“He’s fine,” Dirk lies- or assumes, he isn’t really sure, “And you saw him last night. More or less.”

She scoffs, nearly choking in the process, “Lookie here, brother of the fucki-,” She punctuates her sentence by pounding her chest, trying to dislodge the food lodged in her throat, “-n’ year.”

“That’s me,” He mutters in response, scanning the information on a very nice four bedroom house. Two storeys, two bathrooms, spacious garage and backyard. Nice neighbourhood, minds as well be on the moon though, for how far out of his range it is. By the time he closes the tab in defeat and looks back up to Roxy, she’s analysing his face in a way that reminds Dirk just how alike she and her mother are.

“What?”

She purses her lips, “Nothing. What’chu looking at?”

“Job openings,” He lies coolly, stretching his sore arms over his head, “Want me to look for you too?”

Roxy stares at him blankly for a few seconds and then blinks, “Oh shit that happened didn’t it.”

“Yep.”

“Fuuuuuck.” She rolls her head back limply, hands covering her face, “We are so screwed.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“How about _you_ tell _me_ something _I_ don’t know.”

Dirk raises an eyebrow, “Excuse me?”

“Or that you think I don’t know, because I totally do know.” She gestures fluidly, slicing the air above the table.

“I don’t…” Dirk shakes his head, “What are you even talking about?”

“What are you really looking at?”

“Why would I even lie about what I’m looking at? This is a pretty baseless interrogation.”

She rolls her eyes and sighs, as though she is dealing with a small child who denies stealing from the cookie jar with a mouth covered in crumbs, “I can see the reflection in your glasses numbnuts.”

Dirk pauses for a second and considers denying it further, but quickly decides that would be superfluous, because she’s got him. He shrugs, “I didn’t want to worry you with shit I can handle.”

“So you were just gonna leave out the part where you’ll be effectively homeless in, what’d you say? 10 days? Jesus fuck, Dirk, for someone who’s probably the smartest dude on the planet, you’re such a fucking idiot sometimes.”

Dirk decides not to comment on her selective amnesia, or make a typical nitpicky asshole comment on her terminology. “Roxy, you are just as equally unemployed as I am. You will probably be losing your house soon too. If I’d told you prior, you’d just blame yourself for not being able to help me out. I can take care of myself, so don’t worry.”

She looks like she’s about to argue back, but instead slowly lowers her head until it presses against the table, her arms hanging limp by her sides. “I am going to get evicted.” Her words are muffled against the wood, “I am going to be homeless.”

“Hey, no, Rox-”

She raises her face to him, “Can we at least share a street corner? We’ll be like roommates, but with no room.” Dirk looks up at the ceiling in a silent plea for Roxy to pull herself together, which, unsurprisingly to him, goes unheard. She lays back into the table, “Oh my God I’ll have to become a prostitute. We’ll both have to become prostitutes. Dave too. We’ll be a fucking family of hookers.”

“Roxy Lalonde we are not going to become a family of hookers.”

“Unless you have any better ideas, that is looking like our best option.”

Dirk shrugs and suggests the first thing that comes to mind, “Move back in with your mom.”

Roxy raises her head again quickly and opens her mouth to say something, only to close it slowly out of second thought, “That’s…” She tightens her mouth, “That’s actually a good idea. I dunno if she’ll think so though.”

“Why wouldn’t she? From what I know, she loves you. Albeit it in her own special way.”

“Yeah, but I’ll be like,” She gestures, searching for the word, “Intruding.”

“I thought that her partner liked you?”

“She does, but that doesn’t mean mom has to appreciate my daughterly aura cockblocking her 24/7.” Roxy leans back and then freezes, tense and rigid, “Dirk.”

“What’s wrong?” He asks, mildly concerned.

She unlocks and come swinging back forward, eyes like saucers with an excited grin, “Nothing, it’s like, the complete opposite of that. I think I may have nuked the birds.”

“Okay?”

“My mom’s girlfriend, do you know what she does? Like what she goes out of the house in the morning to do and comes home at night with fat stacks for doing it of her literal own accord?”

“Is she a drug dealer, because that’s what it sounds like.”

Roxy ignores him and continues, enthusiasm only growing, “She used to be a seamstress, I mean, I think she still is sometimes. Maybe. I don’t know. But what I _do_ know- because I remember when she told me I was like why even, but now, holy fucking tits on a dog Dirk,” Roxy leans right across the table, sandwiching his non-fucked up hand between hers, “She works in _motherfucking real estate_.”

\---

Dirk wasn’t as utterly that convinced that these ‘connections’ could gain him any sort of advantage as Roxy was. She spent the two hours following promising him that she would be able to sort it all out, which he agreed to, even if just to make her feel better. He offered her to stay another night, as, by the time she actually decided to leave, the sun was setting. She declined, telling him that she has shit to pack and some phone calls to make- but she’d keep him posted.

Dave still hadn’t made an appearance, so Dirk agreed to promise he’d tell him that Roxy said hello. He didn’t agree to promise to give him a kiss for her, but he’s sure that Dave will get the picture.

And now he sits, promises to be fulfilled- but with no plans of doing so anytime soon- in the dining room, a slow darkness being sucked into the vacuum around him. He is still yet to see Dave today. Dirk feels as though he should be concerned, but he can’t bring himself to be. Even thinking about it results in an impassable _he’ll be fine, he can take care of himself._

The bandages Roxy insisted on dressing his hand in feel uncomfortable against his skin. Dirk never uses bandages; he isn’t even really sure why he has any. Probably Dave. He has a lot of things that he never uses that’s presence can be chalked up to brother guilt. He knows he shouldn’t go so hard on the kid, but who the fuck else is going to teach him to kick ass? It’s not like its’ easy to walk away damage free from having razors with handles slashed at you. Actually, they haven’t really strifed in a few months now. Dirk’s been working, and Dave’s been… Doing whatever he’s been doing. Dirk isn’t even really sure what the kid has been up to.

Fuck and here comes the brother guilt.

“Hey,” The light flicks on and Dirk squints hard against the sharp brightness, “Were you just going to brood around in the dark like a tenth grade emo all night or?”

Dirk shelters her eyes under one hand and grabs his shades off the table with the other. Donning them, he replies, “You can hardly talk. You haven’t been out of your room all day.”

Dave shrugs and heads to the fridge.

“What have you even been doing?”

“Nothing.” He responds distractedly, scanning the sparse shelves of the fridge.

“If you’re looking for the pizza, Roxy ate it all.”

He groans, “Why is it that every time she comes over she eats all our shit? And I don’t mean literal shit- so don’t do your whole ‘phrasing, Dave’ bit.” He points to his brother, “You know damn well I mean it metaphorically.”

Dirk rolls his eyes but otherwise refrains from comment. Dave plonks down across from him, where Roxy was sitting. He leans back and kicks his feet up onto the table. Dirk twitches. He hates that.

“Oh yeah, Roxy told me to tell you hi, seeing as though you’re a rude little asshole and didn’t give her the opportunity to say it herself.”

Dave grunts in response, fiddling with his phone. He’s in a mood, it doesn’t take a genius to figure that out, but usually he’s better at hiding it.

“What’s up with you?”

He keeps his gaze trained on his phone, “Nothing is up with me, what’s up with _you_?”

Dirk looks sceptically at his brother, “Nothing.” He answers slowly.

“Bullshit.” Dave mutters.

“Excuse me?”

“You aren’t telling me shit,” He looks up at his brother and rolls his eyes in conjunction with his hand, “I mean, you’re telling me even less shit than usual.”

“Dav-”

“No. Don’t get all parental on me bro. I don’t wanna play your stupidass mind games tonight.” Dirk furrows his brow incredulously at Dave, “It’s like monopoly; you start out thinking it’ll be fun, but after a few trips around the board you forget what the whole purpose of the game was in the first place, and then you’re only playing out of this spiteful need to not lose. But I’m callin’ it. I don’t want to play, if we just don’t start the game then we won’t need to fight over who gets to be the horse.”

“Your metaphor was going really strongly until the last part.”

“No, see like,” Dave swings his legs off the table and rocks back forward onto all four legs, “Sometimes I want to be the horse, but you’re _always_ the horse. And I’ll be like; hey bro, let me be the horse for once, and you’re like; fight me for it ya fuck,” He puts on a stupidly deep voice to mimic Dirk, who rolls his eyes but doesn’t interrupt, “And you always win, so there’s no point in even _wanting_ to be the horse, let alone fighting you for it- because we both know that all outcomes lead to you getting to be the stupid fucking horse anyway.”

“So,” Dirk gestures to Dave sceptically, “You don’t want me to talk, because you believe that I’m keeping shit from you?”

“No,” He sighs, frustrated, “I just want you to tell me what you’re dancing around like a world class ballerina without being an asshole about it.”

“But what does the horse in your metaphor even represent then?”

“Fuck, forget the metaphor. This is what I’m talking about oh my God,” He rubs his eyes under his shades, “ Can we stop fucking with eachother for like, two seconds?”

“Okay.” Dirk says, “What do you want to know then?”

Dave looks at him blankly for a second as though he wasn’t expecting that answer, but then folds his arms. “Well, for starters why does your hand look like it’s about to start shouting out for Adrian?” He studies it from across the table and raises an eyebrow, “Okay that’s just weird. Bandages? Really?”

“I punched a guy in the face, and Roxy was adamant about dressing it. I told her that it would make literally no difference, but she wouldn’t listen.”

“Who’d you punch?”

Dirk shrugs, “My now ex-employer.”

Dave scrunches his nose, “Well yeah, that’d usually be a consequence of punching your boss in the fuckin’ face.”

“No. I quit.”

“Yeah that makes sense too,” Dave says tilting his head in understanding, “I don’t get why you didn’t just tell me though, we probably would’ve high-fived over it.”

“I don’t know if you’d noticed, but I hadn’t exactly been having best day. I wasn’t really in the mood to share a witty anecdote about my violent exploits.”

Dave looks as though he’s about to say something else, but doesn’t.

“Anything else you wanted to know?” Dirk asks.

He is quiet for a few moments before answering with a cold, “Nope.”

“We’ll be fine, Dave,” Dirk reassures out of aimless confliction to answer to the question his brother won't ask, “We will be alright. Roxy has connections- it’s going to work out. I promise.” He isn’t even sure which one of them he’s trying to convince.

“Why are we not just going to crash with Roxy? Like, that seems to be the most obvious conclusion here.”

“She’s going to move back in with her mom, and I don’t want to ruin her chances by making it a party.”

Dave responds with an understanding mumble and picks at his fingernails. They sit quietly for a few moments before he stands and heads back into the kitchen. “I’m going to cook me some world class mac and cheese if you want some.”

“Nah, I’m right.” Dirk responds, stretching out his sore body, especially cramped from sitting in the same position all day. “I’ll get something later.”

“Suit yourself.” He mutters as he pulls out the least rusted pot and fills it with water.

\---

They sit together on opposite ends of the couch, impassively watching Dance Moms. Dirk eyes the empty bowl on the coffee table, slowly drying cheese gunk coating the inside. He feels as though he should wash it before it gets too solid, but he really doesn’t have the energy to stand. He’s tempted to tell Dave to do it- but he knows that Dave won’t do it right, it’s easier to just do it himself.

Glancing at his brother, Dirk can’t tell whether he’s asleep of not. His head is tilted back to an angle where seeing the television would be difficult, but neither of them are really watching anyway.

“Hey,” He whispers, poking Dave gently on the arm, “You awake?”

No response. Dirk ignores his protesting body and grabs the bowl, heading for the kitchen. As he scrubs it clean- he wonders if he should just leave it out, as they’ll have to pack everything away soon enough anyway. _Should I pack all the bowls and cups and food eating junk? What can we even keep? Maybe it’d just be easier to throw out everything. Or sell it and make some money._ He stares at the completely unremarkable bowl as though maybe it has the answers. Of course, it doesn’t, and he sets it aside.

Instead of waking Dave, Dirk gently lies him down into what remains of the makeshift bed from last night. He pulls off his little brothers shades and folds them on the coffee table. Turning off the TV, he wonders if the whole shades thing is actually necessary at home. Really, it’d seem strange to stop now after they’ve been doing it for so long.

Lying in his own bed, Dirk Strider finds himself doing something he’d promised himself he’d stop doing an equally long time ago.

He hopes.

He hopes that Roxy is right, and that she will be able to find them a place to live. He hopes that her mom will let her move back in. He hopes that one day she can be happy.

He hopes that Dave is alright, and that-even though he isn’t sure who the hell thought it’d be a good idea to let him be a guardian- he hasn’t fucked him up too badly. He hopes that he can do right by the kid. He hopes his motivational brother shit was true, and that it really will all work out for the both of them.

Dirk Strider even hopes for himself. He hopes that one day he will be able to sleep without all these nightmares. He hopes that one day he will be satisfied with who he is. He hopes that maybe, just maybe, he can do something worthwhile with his life before he finally dies.

He knows it’s all bullshit and idealism. But he still hopes.

\---

Just over a week later, Dirk sits surrounded by boxes in what used to be his living room. Dave is packing up the last of his crap in his bedroom. Or at least that’s what he says he’s doing. They both know that he’s just lying on the floor doing fuck all. Dirk already knows he’s going to have to finish the job himself.

But for the moment, he just sits. Unsure of that to do next. They only have two days until they must vacate, and he still doesn’t know where they’re going. Roxy has called almost every day since she left, just to check in and let him know she’s doing fine, and that, besides for a fair amount of passive aggressive animosity between them, she and her mom are getting along famously. She said that they still haven’t had any luck on the house hunting frontier, but they’re looking.

 Dirk’s glad he never had any real faith in the idea that she could miraculously solve all their problems. He never had any _real_ faith in anything.

So he just sits, and he worries. In his pocket is an old photograph that he can’t bring himself to look at anymore. He considered just packing it in with the rest of their shit, but for some reason, he couldn’t let it go.

It’s nothing special, but most things aren’t. He considers reaching for it, but he can’t deal with the sickening sense of sadness and nostalgia that it brings with it right now. So he just keeps it in his pocket, where it can only remind him gently that it exists, and not assault him with the fact that it can never exist again.

Dirk’s train of thought is derailed by his phone ringing. He flops onto his back to reach for it and answers, still lying down.

“Hello?”

“I told you I would deliver the goods!”

“Roxy?”

“Last time I checked,” She laughs at her own joke, “Listen, Dirky we have hit motherload here. The _motherfuckin’_ motherload.”

“Wait,” He sits up, “You actually found a house?”

“Hell _yes_ I found a house.”

Dirk presses his hand almost involuntarily over the pocket with the photograph in it, “Well? Tell me.”

“Ok so it’s super nice, or at least it is in this picture I’m lookin’ at right now. Like, I don’t even know why it’s on the market. Two storeys, four if you count the attic and basement. It’s a little bit out in buttfuck nowhere- like not near any towns by what I would now like to be known as Roxy Lalonde certified walking distance.”

“Where is it?” He asks, trying to keep his voice level, and his optimism suppressed.

“Okay don’t freak out but it’s in Colorado.”

“Colorado?” _That’s north._

“Just think of it like you’ll be just that much closer to your BFF now that she is one of the cool Cali kids, and also it’s _way_ less hot th-”

“How much?”

“Huh?”

“How much is it Roxy?”

“Well this is the kinda shady but also best bit,” She laughs excitedly, “It’s _free._ ”

“What.” Dirk deflates. _This must be a joke._

“I know you think I’m kidding but I’m legit not. I am like, 10 seriouses out of a possible 10. I mean, I thought it was a joke too, but it’s not. Nobody wants it and my mom’s gf has been told to get it the fuck off market by any means, ‘cause the upkeep and advertising is eating into their budget or something I don’t know I stopped listening. It’s fucking _free_ Dirky.”

“If it’s free it’s probably already been taken Rox.”

“Weren’t you listenin’ to me at all? Nobody _wants_ it. It’s _yours_.” She waits for him to respond, but he can’t, so she continues, “If you’re interested, that is.”

“Fuck yes I’m interested.” He answers before she’s even done speaking. “It’s just, haven’t you ever heard of too good to be true?”

“Well _yeah_ , but you know you shouldn’t look a gift house in the mouth. And have you considered that maybe this is the universe finally giving the Striders a fuckin’ break?”

He clenches his fists- the still heavily bruised, more than likely broken one aching in remonstration. He fights internally with his optimistic desperation and autonomous scepticism. “When can I check it out?”

She cackles, as excited and positive as he is trying to avoid feeling, just in case it all turns to shit. “Kanaya is in the general vicinity right now if you wanna drive up there and meet her asap.”

Dirk does the maths in his head, about 16 hours up, 16 hours back. Accounting for any obstacles and interferences, the trip could take over a day. “I’ll leave as soon as I pack the car, text me the directions.” He stands and starts to head over to Dave’s room, but stops, “Hey, Rox, thank you.”

She scoffs over the phone, “If you’re going to tell me how amazing and incredible I am, you don’t need to, because I already know- but its nice to be reminded occasionally .”

“You are amazing and incredible and I love you.”

“Damn straight I am, love you too Dirky, talk soon.”                                    

He agrees and hangs up. “Dave.” He taps on the doorframe and Dave raises his head from the floor to look at him.

“What?”

It takes every ounce of self control in Dirk’s being to keep him from grinning, “Feel like going on a road trip?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was a bitch to write but wOW THINGS ARE FINALLY HAPPENING BUCKLE YOUR SEATBELTS KIDS


	4. Empiricism

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Empiricism  
> [em-pir-uh-siz-uh m]  
> Noun:  
> The practice of basing ideas and theories on testing and experience.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took so long, i have approximately none of my shit together
> 
> ((also another apology for the quality of this chapter- i am in the midst of a very tumultuous period of existence rn and wanted to just hash this out and get it done, even if that meant it became a 4am self hatred fuelled writing catastrophe.))

Nine hours. Nine fucking hours in a stinking hot metal death-trap. Nine hours listening to the cough and splutter of a failing engine and watching Dirk pretend he doesn’t freak out over it. Nine hours of Dave fanning himself with an old folded map during the intervals in which his brother isn’t demanding directions. Nine hours sandwiched between boxes filled with miscellaneous crap and being poked by the pointed edges. Nine hours and there are still seven to go.

Dave rubs his eyes as he waits for Dirk to return from paying for gas. The sun is starting to disappear, and so is his patience.

He goes to put his feet up on the dashboard, but he knows Dirk will have a bitch about it, so he reconsiders. Usually, the whole reason he’d do it in the first place would be to grind Dirk’s gears, but Dave really does not want to listen to some long-ass lecture from his windbag brother right now. He’s tired, he’s irritated, and he just wants to get out of this fucking car.

Dave looks lazily to his phone as it dings for his attention.

**Help me hoard.**

He smirks and unbuckles his seatbelt. Through the glass wall of the service station, he can see Dirk gesturing to him subtly.

Time to shine.

Dave grabs the backpack they keep under the passenger seat for foraging and slings it over his shoulder and leaves the car. He strolls casually into the building, automatic doors parting for him just like everyone else. Dirk scans the room impassively, sliding his shades up his nose. Dave knows the code and removes his own- disassociating them. They have been poor, and when you’re poor, you develop a pretty sweet system for not starving to death.

Once Dave’s eyes adjust to the clinical lighting of the station, he gives his brother a small nod. Dirk returns the nod and promptly drops the two litre bottle of milk in his hands.

 “Oh my God!” He exclaims, standing over the quickly spreading dairy explosion, “I am _such_ a klutz.”

Dave laughs to himself as he wanders down the aisles, looking for whatever seems interesting.

“I am so, _so_ sorry,” Dirk tells the cashier as she rushes over with a roll of paper towels, “I’ll clean it all up, I swear.”

She waves him away and squats over the mess, “It’s alright, I’ve got it.”

“Oh no, I insist.” He squats next to her and grabs some towels, making sure to brush her hand with the skin of his undressed one upon reaching out. She blushes and it takes all of him not to roll his eyes. He hates doing this, it’s uncomfortable. But he’s a better actor than Dave, and they need supplies.

As Dirk plays the role of charming stranger, Dave grabs whatever he feels like he can get away with; including, but not being limited to, four bottles of apple juice and three packets of Doritos. He takes a moment, carton of chocolate milk in one hand, tub of ice-cream in the other. He scrutinises them both, weighing them up. He knows he shouldn’t take either, but after the initial fleeting hesitation, he shrugs and shoves the milk down his pants, and takes up the last of the space in the backpack with the ice-cream.

Dave peeks over a rack filled with shitty direct to DVD movies that no one will ever buy, watching his brother distract the cashier. He remembers how nervous he used to be doing this, but now it’s like the most natural thing in the world. And honestly, it makes him feel pretty fucking cool, like a less batshit insane Tom Cruise.

“I promise I’ll pay for it.” Dirk tells the girl as he helps her to her to stand.

“Oh, there’s really no need,” She giggles, “Accidents happen.”

He smiles at her warmly, but Dave can see the distaste behind it. He really is a good actor.

“As long as you’re sure?”

She smiles back and nods, prolonging the pause into awkward territory. Dave takes this as his queue to bail and heads back over to the doors. On his way he almost expects her to call him out. No matter how many times he does this, and no matter how chill he is about the whole thing, he still finds himself tensing up as he leaves. The fear of getting caught is never erased completely.

She doesn’t call out though, and before he even realises he’s been holding his breath, Dave is back in the car. As he puts his shades back on, Dirk flops in beside him

He sighs and rubs his eyes, “I am never doing that again.”

Dave pulls the milk out of his pants and offers it to his brother out of what is half a genuine offer and half mock sympathy. Dirk stares at the milk for a few seconds, then moves his gaze from Dave’s hand, up along his arm and finally rests it on his face. He raises an eyebrow, “Are you kidding?”

“Oh, shit, yeah,” Dave shoves the milk into the bag, “I somehow forgot that you’re a fucking nerd for a second.”

“Being lactose intolerant does not make me a nerd, it’s hardly my fault.” He scrunches his nose. “And you can’t talk- you are as well. Why did you even get that?”

Dave scoffs, “Because I eat what I want; I will not be pushed around by my intestines.”

“Don’t you even _think_ about drinking it in the car where I have to smell your gas for seven hours.”

Dave shrugs and elects not to tell him about the ice-cream. As Dirk grabs the keys out from under the sun visor, Dave notices the slip of paper crinkling between his fingers and smirks. “Nice one, Casanova.”

Dirk ignores him and throws the scrunched paper behind him into the plethora of crap deemed worthy of moving, where it will probably never be found.

“My brother the heartbreaker.”

“Fuck yourself.”

He starts the car. They need to get out of here before the cashier realises they have screwed her, and not in the way she’d like.

Dirk pulls out into the dark street; he didn’t really think this through as well as he should have. It’s going to be at least 12am before they reach Colorado. Not late for him, but probably too late to be checking out any properties. He presses his mouth as he shifts into gear. Probably.

“Dave do you have Roxy’s number?”

“I dunno,” He answers inattentively, looking through his stash, “Maybe.”

“Call her.”

“Do it yourself.”

“Unless you want me to pull over and waste time, call her.”

Dave rolls his eyes, “ _Fine_.”  He pulls out his phone and selects her from his contacts. The phone only rings once before she picks up.

“Yo what’s up David? You callin’ to apologise for avoiding me, because there’s really no need. I forgive you.”

“Well gee, thanks Lalonde. I’m not sure if I could’ve slept plagued with the thought that perhaps you had not forgiven me for my unspeakable negligence.”

Dirk smacks his shoulder with the back of his hand, “Shut up and put it on speaker.”

Dave complies and leaves his phone on the dashboard, returning to his rifling.

“Hey Roxy.”

“Ay yo Dirky what’s up?”

“Do you have Kanaya’s phone number?”

“Nope, but mom does- hold on a sec and I’ll get it for ya.” Her voice is slightly fainter, but still clear as she yells, “ _MOM_ DIRK NEEDS YOUR LADYFRIEND’S PHONE NUMBER.”

Dirk grabs a pen out of the glove compartment and hands it to Dave to take down the digits, which he complies with after an annoyed groan.

“You got that?” Roxy asks.

“Yes,” He responds as Dave holds up the back of his hand with the messy numbers scrawled on it, “Thank you.”

“No problemo, I live to give.” With that she hangs up, and, after an expectant glance from his brother, Dave punches in Kanaya’s phone number.

“Hello, Kanaya Maryam speaking.” A smooth and refined female voice answers. Dirk can automatically tell that she is a textbook example of Rose Lalonde’s type.

“Kanaya, it’s Dirk Strider.”

“Oh,” She says, “You’re Roxy’s associate. How can I be of assistance?”

“I’m just calling to let you know that we will be arriving in state later than anticipated.” Dave mimes him, mocking his polite tone, but Dirk opts to ignore it.

She responds with a low hum of something between private amusement and understanding, “Yes, I assumed as much. We can set up a meeting for tomorrow circa 11am, if that works for you.”

He presses his middle finger to Dave’s face as he continues to imitate him, “That’d be great, thank you.”

“It really is no trouble. I will see you then.”

“Yes, _indeed_ we will see you then.” Dave calls out over the top of Dirk, who shoves him back into his seat.

“Can you _not_?”

“Chill,” Dave laughs as he grabs his phone, “She hung up.”

“I swear to God if you keep acting like such a fuckwit you are sleeping outside.”

Dave purses his lips in mock consideration and then smirks at his brother, “Nah.”

\---

He was right, he didn’t sleep outside. Dave sleeps in his car seat, reclined as far as it’ll go against the tightly packed boxes. Dirk however, struggles with the idea of sleep for a few hours before caving in and going to stand outside. He leans against his car, still two hours out of Colorado on an empty country roadside- stars and his own burning cigarette the only lights to illuminate this void. He finds himself feeling what he can only describe as an empty fullness. Like a bucket with a hole in it that’s overflowing because the tap is running too fast for the hole to be draining it all.

He pauses to mull over this, then huffs quietly to himself and smothers his cigarette against the chipped steel of his car bonnet, along with his train of thought.

\---

“Hello, I’m Kanaya.” She holds out a perfectly manicured hand, “It’s nice to finally make your acquaintance; I have heard a great deal of things about you.” 

Dirk takes her much smaller hand in his, “It’s nice to meet you too, although I probably haven’t heard as much.”

She’s tall and slender, with a dark complexion and hair to match. The polar opposite of Rose. But there is something in the way she carries herself, with such fluid grace and poise that definitely reflects her.

“This is my brother, Dave.” He motions to a slouched and indifferent Dave, who supplies a, “Sup.”

Kanaya smiles politely, deep green eyes curtained by dark lashes, “Now that we are au fait, let me guide you through the domicile which has served as an utter stain on my otherwise pristine track record.”

She gestures behind her to the house which Dirk has been struggling to keep his eyes off. It is, for lack of a better word, huge. And not too shabby.

Well, it is shabby. But it’s also free, so there’s that.

All the paint is peeling, but he could redo it in a day or two. Some panelling seems to be rotting, but that’s fine, nothing is perfect. A cracked window or two, some slate falling from the roof, but Dirk doesn’t mind. He already lives in something that’s broken.

He is already doing the maths in his head, by now it’s a force of habit. The maths, that is. He calculates the height, and the width- he works out the interior volume to be ready to expect the inside.

“It may seem rather unappealing from the exterior, but it is less sordid on the inside.” Kanaya promises, almost as though she’s reading his mind. She begins to make her way to the porch, which looks damp although it isn’t raining, gesturing for them to follow.

Dirk turns to Dave, “So?”

Dave folds his arms, “It’s fucking freezing.”

“I mean the house.”

He scans it up and down and clicks his teeth, “It is so haunted.”

Dirk rolls his eyes; he shouldn’t have expected any more than a grunt, really.

“I know you’re rolling your eyes at me right now, but just, seriously. Look at this place bro. We are going to fucking die.”

“You’re right,” He shoves his hands into his pockets and proceeds behind their guide, “I am rolling my eyes at you.”

Dave sneers at his brother was he walks away. This place is creeping him the fuck out, and he will not take the blame when some psychopath covered in peanut butter busts down their door and _literally rapes them to death_.

He curses under his breath, fog forming over his words. It’s cold, and he’s tired and sore from a shitty sleep. Dave rubs his eyes, trying to force the fatigue out of his head. Gotta have his reflexes on point for when some pissed off poltergeist jumps him from the shadows. He opens his eyes, pulling down on the sockets, and catches a glimpse of… something.

He freezes. It’s definitely something. Right there, in the window. His vision is blurry but he… He blinks.

And of course, it’s gone.

“Dirk,” He calls, still in a state of suspended animation, “Please tell me you saw that.”

His brother looks over his shoulder, “What?”

And of course, he’s the only one who saw it.

Dave drops his arms by his sides and breathes in deeply, “Nothing, nevermind.”

_I am going to fucking die._

\---

Kanaya was right; the inside is nicer than the outside. Dirk admires it, really. It’s not going to grace the covers of Better Homes & Gardens any time soon, but it’s still better than anything he has lived in. It’s regular, and he likes that.

“As you can see,” Kanya gestures to the kitchen, with its faux tiles- peeling up from the floorboards, and its 80s style countertops, “It is a bit of a fixer upper, but I’m certain you could utilise that.” Her lip twitches behind her polite smile, and Dirk can tell she is writhing inside.

“Kanaya you can cut the crap, it’s not as though I’m going to reject a free house, especially seeing as though I have nowhere else to go.”

Dave huffs and Dirk jabs him in the ribs discreetly.

Her smile collapses in on itself into something akin to a scowl, “This house is an absolute nightmare. It is just so…” She rolls her hands searching for the word, “So _ugly_.”

“And haunted.” Dave whispers, and Dirk jabs him again.

“I honestly am unaffected by aesthetics, I really just want somewhere that wont cave in on me.” He assures her, “It won’t do that, right?”

“Definitely not.” She shrugs, “Well, I mean, Probably not.”

“Then I’m sold- so just the tour, without the bullshit, would be fine.”

She gives him a relaxed smile and an almost thankful nod, “Well then, shall we continue with our tour of the worst house in human history?”

“Lead the way.”

Before Dirk can follow suit, Dave grabs a fistful of his shirt, “Bro I swear to God if you buy this house and I die any death that even somewhat constitutes as unnatural, I’m blaming you.”

Dirk pries his shirt out of his brother’s hand, “I’ll keep that in mind.”

\---

Dave breaks away from the party when Kanaya offers to show them the basement.

“There is no fucking way in hell I am going down there.” He says adamantly, arms folded, “I do not have a Goddamn death wish.”

“Whatever,” Dirk sighs, “Wait up here by yourself if you’d rather.”

He opens his mouth to argue further but shuts it into a firm line and presses his arms harder into his body. Dirk shakes his head and follows an expectant Kanaya down the stairs.

If he didn’t know any better, he’d be afraid too. It’s colder than the rest of the house, but Dirk knows that’s because it’s underground, and the stone traps the cold air- not because of the spirits of the dead. That’s ridiculous.

He shrugs off any disquiet, it’s irrational and illogical. And if there are two things that Dirk Strider isn’t, it’s irrational and illogical.

“Well, as you can see, this room is equally as disgusting as every other.” Kanya announces as she nears the bottom of the stairs, “Perhaps you could store your functionless possessions here where they can be forgotten.”

The room really isn’t that bad. If he knows one thing about Kanaya Maryam, it’s that her standards are very high. Sure, there are boxes piled throughout the cold mason stone room, and the light is a single flickering bulb dangling from a rusted chain in the middle of the room- but it’s still not that bad.

Dirk eyes said flickering bulb closer. He considers asking about the circuit board, but decides to just take a look for himself later. He’s already compiling a mental list of chores- which he’s almost anticipating. It’ll be a nice distraction, and he missing being able to be able to tear things apart and put them back together again with his bare hands. It’s what he’s good at.

“I do have something to disclose,” Kanaya says, tearing him away from his musing, “And I believe now would be a prime opportunity to do so, with the absence of your brother.” She leans against one particularly tall pile of boxes- somehow still looking like the quintessence of elegance doing so.

“And what would that be?” Dirk asks, mirroring her lean, although not half as gracefully.

“Let’s just say that the raison d'être this house has been so problematic is not because of its tasteless décor.”

Dirk furrows his brow, “I’m not sure I follow.”

“This house has some, uh,” She purses her lips, “Baggage.”

“And what does that mean?”

“A lot of unfortunate things have happened here, and that has made it rather difficult to sell.”

“Unfortunate like how?”

She bites her lip, “Unfortunate like fatalities.”

“People have died here?” Dirk asks, although he is really unsurprised. If a house this nice is free, it must have a fucked up back-story. And negative connotations pertaining to ‘murder houses’ are all just stupid superstition anyway. Dirk Strider is too smart to let fallacies such as this affect his decision making. He’s glad she waited until Dave was absent though, or he would never hear the end of it.

“A few, yes.”

“So, more than one?”

“Multiple.”

He shrugs, “Like, two? Maybe three?”

She presses her fingers together and looks down, “circa fifteen.”

Dirk’s eyes widen against his better judgement- and he only barely refrains from making a comment. But he quickly clears his throat and regains his composure. Really, how much does that affect? Not a lot- if anything. So many people have died throughout history, everywhere you walk you’re stepping somewhere where someone died, what different is this?

_Don’t you fucking let Dave know this, he is a big enough princess as it is._

“I hope this won’t affect your decision, it’s just that I am required by state law to divulge any information regarding death on the property.”

“No, no,” Dirk answers, rubbing the back of his neck, “I’m still buying, I’d appreciate a bit more than a number, though.”

“How do you mean?”

“Like,”

_Why are you flustered? You’re being stupid- this kind of thing doesn’t matter anyway. You don’t care about this shit. You never have, why start now?_

“I don’t know,”

_Why the fuck are you still talking? Just say nevermind and get it over with._

“Who were they?”

_Why do you even care? What difference will knowing make?_

Kanaya shakes her head, “I don’t recall them all in detail- but I can inform you that the last couple that resided here were victim of a murder suicide. That is the basis of the carpet in the living room being removed. Tragic, that was.” She pauses then holds up her hands defensively, “Not just the carpet, although it _was_ lovely. The woman was also lovely- from what I’ve heard, that is.” She shrugs, “I never actually met her. Rumour has it that her husband was rather unstable, but their partnership was never unhealthy per se. I spoke to a friend of hers to, you know, try and salvage some selling leverage, and apparently they were ‘very good for eachother’.”

Dirk raises an eyebrow “And yet?”

Kanaya nods in agreement, “And yet.”

“How long ago was that?”

She gazes to the ceiling, trying to recall, “About six months, I think.”

“Is that the only one you can remember?”

She purses her lips in thought, “I do know that there were four women living here before them. I think one of them drowned, and the other fell from the roof. I’m not too certain as to what sort of fate befell the rest.”

Dirk finds a morbid curiosity peaking inside him, “And before that?”

She counts on her fingers, “There were two separate couples, I believe one was another murder suicide, and I can’t say for sure, but I don’t think the other couple’s bodies were ever found.”

“So they’re only presumed dead?” He asks.

“I suppose so, it’s been over thirty years though- one would be inclined to believe they’d be found by now, had they not perished.” She smiles at him faintly, “You are strangely interested in this.”

Dirk shrugs, “I guess, is that so wrong?”

“No, it’s a little weird though.”

“I like history, it’s not that weird.”

Kanaya laughs quietly, “You’ll be especially interested in the founding owners of this place, then. I don’t mean to say that I could tell you a lot about them, because I really can’t, but I do know that it was not pleasant for anyone involved.”

He goes to ask about what more she can tell him when he’s cut off by Dave calling out, “ARE YOU TWO EVEN STILL ALIVE?”

Kanaya huffs, amused, and pushes up off the boxes, “We can continue this conversation when the opportunity next presents itself.”

Dirk follows her back up the stairs, somewhat disappointed.

“Were you worried about me?” He jabs at Dave as they exit the basement, “Aw, that’s sweet of you.”

Dave sneers at him, “Don’t flatter yourself bro, If you die, I’m stuck out here.”

He goes to retort, but Kanaya interjects by clearing her throat, “Shall we continue?”

\---

From the top of the stairs, a rather curious boy watches these people wander about his house. It takes every ounce of restraint in his being for him to not introduce himself.

They seem pretty cool. Not in the way they seem to think they are, but in the real way. That plus he’s lonely as all hell.

And bored.

He’s really, really bored.

Yes, he likes his own company, and that new couple are nice and all, but they’re much more interested in eachother, and he isn't really all that interested in himself anymore.

But he is interested in these people. And he is especially interested in the tall one. The sad looking one. The mature, muscular one. Everything about him appears sharp, from his hair to his glasses, and even his features. But the boy can tell there’s something else hiding there.

He is very intriguing. Which is worrying.

It’s very worrying.

The boy frowns to himself. He resolves to make sure he explains things before his cousin gets an opportunity to drive them out. Which he will. Because death has made him kind of a dick.

Death has made a lot of people a lot of things, he supposes. He really shouldn't blame the kid, after this many years, you lose touch with consequences. God knows the boy hardly remembers what they were like. It’s only because he held on a lot tighter that he does.

Or at least that’s how he likes to think of it. Maybe he’s just a fruitcake.

Yeah, that’s probably more likely.

“I’ll show you around upstairs briefly and then we shall examine the paperwork.” The, quite frankly, gorgeous woman announces as she heads towards the staircase.

The two men with her follow, the shorter (yet in some way, still very tall) one more reluctantly than (who he assumes is) his brother. The boy smiles. His cousin would like him, he thinks. His sister too. Definitely for different reasons, though.

As they approach, he flattens himself against the wall. Even after this many years, he still hasn't erased the reflex feeling that he’ll be seen.

Of course they don’t see, he’s in second level, but that doesn't stop him from tensing up as they pass. Or maybe he just tenses up because he’s excited. Or because he’s anxious. The two are practically synonymous, aren't they?

As he shifts into third and sinks through the wall, he decides that he’s definitely neither of those things, but also somehow both of them.

Emotions are funny like that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if ur pissed because some of the characters and junk in the tags havent been explicitly mentioned- its bc they're dead and i didnt know how else to clarify my vague shitlordiness. Sorry if its super annoying, if you feel the need to complain go ahead, but i dont know what else to tell ya besides ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> also, there are more relationships, but i wasnt game to tag them bc they havent been referenced yet my system is flawless shut up.
> 
> One other thing: id just like yall to know that i edit like, none of my work.  
> ever.  
> its go big or go home and- regardless of how fucking awful that is a motto to live by- that is unlikely to change anytime soon bc rewrites are for the WEAK.  
> so yeah, i may re-read the chapters after posting and change a few things then, but generally i give myself /way/ too much second hand embarrassment to be reading my own shit to an actual editing extent (id really rather not think about what went wrong in my life to lead to me constantly sitting awake at 5am writing about the same two idiots falling in love over and over again)  
> but anyway- that, my friends, is the reason all this is so sloppy and terrible. i want to promise that i will try harder in the future, but i can guarantee nothing.


End file.
